


funeral toasts come with free wine

by LambentLaments



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Dionysus isn't a god yet, M/M, Mr.D has feelings, he's still an asshole, invention of the world's first dildo, is this necrophilia?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 19:27:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4149969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LambentLaments/pseuds/LambentLaments
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A retelling of the mythology of Dionysus and Prosymnus, AKA the invention of the world's first dildo.<br/>Set loosely in Pjo universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	funeral toasts come with free wine

**Author's Note:**

> I spewed flowery angst and corny pseudo-philosophy over some crack mythology. I'm not kidding about 'flowery'. I wanted an excuse to write 'Rosy fingered Dawn' and 'wine-dark sea', and I'm not even sorry.  
> Though I forget why I wrote this fic in the first place. Sleep deprivation, I think. Will anyone ever read this fic? Neh who cares. I had fun writing it.

Here's a wikipedia link for those who'd like to check out[ the original myth.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prosymnus)

 (In fact I recommend you do read the article first)

 

Give me women, wine, and snuff

Until I cry out "hold, enough!"

You may do so sans objection

Till the day of resurrection:

-John Keats

(Yes, I’m aware the above is a joke poem. For all intents and purposes I’m going to pretend it’s not.)

 

 

The man back tracks and slams the door shut upon seeing him sitting on the only chair of the cabin. This is altogether not unexpected, and grapevines shoot from the ground faster than you can say ‘Ampelos’. Dionysus feels them grabbing something solid and cylindrical, even before he steps outside to smile leisurely at the man struggling to cut the snaking vines.

“Come now, Prosymnus. Is this how you treat a fellow camper?”

The man, looking up from his endeavor with a knife, glares at him from behind his messy bangs, his black eyes cold and murderous. “Is this?” His voice is rough from disuse, a stark contrast to Dionysus’ smooth tone.

The vines slink away with a gesture from his staff, but he still keeps the pine cone tip pointed towards the ground, a clear warning. Prosymnus is larger than him by far, but Dionysus has no doubt who the victor will be when it comes to a fight. “I’ve come only to talk. What would Chiron say, you forgetting manners like this.”

The man furrows his brows at the mention of their tutor. Some imagined slight, it would seem. “You’ve only come to talk,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. He waves his hand around the surroundings. A formidable mountain and a forest enclosing a small lake, leaving space for only a cabin and a grove of fig trees. An alcove, thoroughly hidden and unreachable. A place for those who have lost their appetites for the company of other men, a place for fugitives and hermits.

Prosymnus looks the part. His black hair is matted and greasy. His skin, though dark from the constant sun from shepherding, manages to have an unhealthy, greyish look to it that seems to seep outward from within the flesh.

“Do you know how many have come to me for just what you are asking? And guess how many of those I have turned away.” The bitterness in his voice is not hidden at all, that the only people who seek him out want him purely for the very thing he was outcast for. “Do not imagine your loss is greater than any other man’s.”

“She’s my mother.”

“Is she now.”

“Zeus loves her,” he says, angry. How dare he, this self-recluse, this pitiful excuse for a child of the gods presume to know anything at all.

“I was under the impression that he was the one who killed her. Foolish woman.”

“Father was tricked, surely you know. He was made to swear on the River Styx,” he hisses.

“Ah, but of course, Zeus always keeps his words.”

Thunder rumbles from the skies, but Prosymnus does not even flinch, does not take his dark eyes off of his.

“Do it, son of Zeus, favorite of the gods. Tip me insane, make me a dumb beast, have your disciples take me by force.” A smile sits on his face like something curdled and dead. “I’d tell you to make my loved ones rip me apart, but I’m afraid that may prove somewhat difficult.”

Dionysus would very much like to do any one of those things, can feel his powers working, just aching to put this self-sorry disgrace for daring to mock him. He knows he cannot; it has taken him too long to find the Alcyonian Lake and its only guide. But how does duress work to someone who does not fear death; not because he is fearless, but because he misses too little of life to feel otherwise?

“I see you have not been utterly indifferent of your own colleague’s achievements, Prosymnus,” he says. “Why don’t we head in and talk of old times? I have a very fine brew with me I would like to share with you. Have you ever tried wine?” He smiles challengingly. How far does your apathy stretch, Prosymnus? Prosymnus may not fear Hades, but offenders of Xenia, Zeus punishes himself.

===

There is not much common experience to talk of between them. Prosymnus left Camp Half-blood in haste, and with no friends to speak of. All Dionysus remembers of him are fleeting memories of him haunting the thickness of nearby woods, with no effort to breach the avoidance of other campers, and him always being the last to leave the campfires, reluctant to join the flock returning to Hermes Cabin.

They drag the table up to the bed, to make up for the lack of a chair. The owner of the cabin sits on the edge of the bed, and Dionysus takes the chair, legs crossed at the knees and leaning onto the table. Dionysus attempts conversation, enquiring after his life after camp, assuming light-heartedness, but in fact trying to gauge out a leverage for coercion. He learns none but for that Prosymnus has wandered into deeper and deeper parts of the wild looking for seclusion until he reached this part of Lerna. He inwardly sneers at this. In that same time, Dionysus has earned tens of thousands of followers, slayed a hundred men and monsters, and made his name known to the ends of the earth.

The wine is dark as the sea, more black than red. They drink it undiluted, something usually reserved only for great festivals. Prosymnus expresses initial disgust at the thick wine, calling it ‘liquid madness’, but there are fewer and fewer protests with each fill of his cup, until he’s loose tongued, or as loose tongued as the grouch will ever be, and grudgingly complimenting Dionysus on his invention.

“Yes, it’s quite something isn’t it? It’s earned me quite a reputation. Tell me, friend,” he responds, smiling. If there is nothing the man fears, there must at least be something he wants. “If there is anything you desire, I could obtain it, for old time’s sake.”

“And what should I desire? Riches? Fame? Beautiful girls? That’s your idea of valuables, aren’t they?” The man laughs at the son of Zeus’ display of annoyance, and continues forcefully on, as if daring him. “Nothing but madness and debauchery, that’s what you stand for. Now that I’ve had my taste of wine, I see how you’ve become so popular. It helps people forget doesn’t it? What’s waiting for them at the end of the line. People want so hard to forget about that, but this, this doesn’t make it go away. Forgetting about it doesn’t make it go away. You can’t conquer death with wine and sex. They make you feel like you did, but no, they’re all pointless. Trivial. Like you.”

And what is so far-reaching, Dionysus wants to scream back. Your life is based on self-pity and cowardice. How dare you confuse your shallow nihilism for anything more substantial?

But he has a far more important desideratum. He fixes his smile back on and uncrosses his leg. “Are you sure? I was not jesting, when I said you could have anything.”

To his surprise Prosymnus’ eyes travel downward, to where his legs are now spread slightly apart, stretching the tunic. Dionysus had not meant the gesture to be anything suggestive, but Prosymnus’ wine flushed face tells a different story, and he can see how a man living alone for years with no one for company would have taken it in such a manner. Or perhaps Dionysus himself has considered the possibility, albeit not consciously. Old habits do die hard.

Is this the answer he was looking for, the cost of Prosymnus’ assistance? He could laugh, that for all that Prosymnus talks, the man would be dissuaded by this. This costs nothing at all. Then again, for all he looks and acts, Prosymnus is older than him by a mere few years. Twenty? Twenty-one? Far too young to dismiss what Dionysus stands for.

“There are a million men and women who would… love to have this chance.” He slants his head, bringing him closer to the other man. His locks are flipped backwards, exposing a white strip of skin. “How do you know,” he deliberately stops, letting his lips form their shapes for a second longer. “That I’m not all worth it.”

“Let me prove how good I can make you feel.” He pushes closer. “Let’s see who’s right, Prosymnus.” Softly, so as not to scare him away, he puts a hand on the man’s thigh. It’s dark in the hut save for a bowl of burning oil, and Prosymnus’ eyes look to be swallowed by their pupils. He leans forward, at the edge of his seat, spreading his legs to accommodate Prosymnus’ leg between them. The beginnings of Dionusus’ inner thighs brush Prosymus’ knees, and the man’s breath comes ragged. Dionysus does not need to reach his hand higher up to know how aroused the man is.

This is not the most blatant of his attempts at seduction, but it is certainly far from the most subtle. He has found, however, that subtlety can be a deterrent when it comes to drunken men. His other hand leaves the table so as to trail Prosymnus’ collarbone. It creeps up towards his side of his neck, where the thrum of Prosymnus’ beating heart is carried to the tips of Dionysus’ fingers. Dionysus presses, not hard, but with a particular emphasis. They are both aware that the most vulnerable part of the man’s body in his hand. He looks into the man’s eyes, enquiring. There is no response, but there is a minute slackening in the man’s posture that tells him all there is to know.

Dionysus straddles him, his knees dipping in the straw mattress, and Prosymnus lets out a loud, controlled expiration of breath as their groins meet. During his travels, Dionysus has missed his usual getup of elaborate furs and flowing, vivid robes. At the moment, however, he is glad of his thin tunic. In fact what use are clothes for what they are about to do? If there is one thing Dionysus has never been made to doubt, it is his own beauty.

Without giving Prosymnus any time to collect himself, Dionysus starts up a slow rocking movement. The movement compels him to hold on to the man’s shoulders, but he has his hands caressing Prosymnus’ jaw. “Let me prove to you the worth of ecstasy, how it conquers everything.” He says sotto voce, leaning in. Their mouths are nearly touching, and the words are breathed on Prosymnus’ lips. “You’d like to be proved wrong, wouldn’t you? Let me show you life is worth living.”

“This… this does not mean anything. I’m promising nothing.”

Dionysus kisses him, softly. To his amusement Prosymnus kisses him back, his bushy beard enveloping Dionysus’ smooth face. Dionysus draws back, and the man’s lips follow him forward. “Neither am I.”

As if his words are the que, arms come to wrap around his waist and Dionysus feels a jolt of heat running up his spine at the unexpected pressure. Prosymnus shifts the two of them to pull his legs up the bed, Dionysus still straddling him. For as much as Dionysus may look like a girl, his weight is in muscles, and the man’s demonstration of strength and want leaves Dionysus aroused at his own power, that he has the man in his grasp.

His hands go for the buttons on Prosymnus’ shoulders, and the tunic drops free, hanging on his chest in just several tugs. His fingers map the hair and muscled ridges on the man’s chest, his thumbs seeking out hardened nipples.

Dionysus pushes Prosymnus’ chest, tenderly, even, but the man goes down as if he’s been bodily forced. Dionysus lifts his hips, pulling the man’s tunic lower down, enough for it to be kicked away. As he has guessed, Prosymnus wears no underthings. He wouldn’t when there is no one to gaze upon him but his sheep.

He grasps the shaft and strokes from base to tip, earning raspy moans. He bows into Prosymnus’ neck, aiming to trail his mouth down, but his chin is pulled to Prosymnus’ face, and he finds himself being kissed deceptively sweet. The man looks at him the whole time, eyes hooded, but still open. Dionysus angles his head, kissing him back, and then moves down the chin and throat, reveling in the way Prosymnus tips his head back in surrender. Looking at him Dionysus feels potent his own skill and allure, with a childish sense of self-worth. He tries to make his way down again, but he is once again pulled up to be kissed.

This time Dionysus does not hold back his amusement, and whispers in Prosymnus’ mouth, “Did you dream of this, Prosymnus? Did you lust for me all these years? Is that why you cannot look away?”

He had meant only to tease, but Prosymnus’ eyelids flick back, and the hands on Dionysus’ waist are suddenly hard enough to bruise.

“Do not mock me,” the man growls. The burning oil exaggerates the shadows on this darker side of the cabin, and Prosymnus’ face looks as dark as Tartarus. “Not if you knew. Even you must know it’s not something to be mocked.”

Dionysus tries not to let on his shock, and moves to kiss him. Prosymnus turns his head, however, and Dionysus’ lips grazes his jaw instead. The man stares determinedly at the shadows on the wall, as if willing them to swallow him, and watching him Dionysus is too aware of the pulsating bit of flesh in his hand, serving as a sort of ridiculous anchor to the material world.

“I didn’t know.” Dionysus says, surprising himself with his sincerity. Suddenly he recalls black stares that lingered on more than necessary, that anyone would have guessed to be bordered on hate, and during the few bits of conversations they had, a pining expression that he always assumed to be rooted in jealousy. How could he have known, you obstinate, idiotic man.

With caressing fingers he turns Prosymnus’ head to face him. “I spoke in jest. I did not know.” His voice betrays a little of the pity but none of the contempt he feels.

He jerks his hand, fingers wet from the tip, baring the head. Proymnus bucks into his hand but Dionysus can feel his triumph dwindling, even though he’s finally found leverage on Prosymnus. Dionysus moves his hand, expertly and mechanical, as he’s had for a hundred different men, until Prosymnus is writhing and bucking into him, but there is little of the gratification that held him before. Did you of think of my thighs as you lay on this very bed? He wants to asks, but it feels wrong to gloat his victory now.

Prosymnus has changed the rules. With Prosymnus’ words this has become not a frenzy of carnal pleasure, but something outside his limits. Many men and women have lusted after Dionysus, but lust thwarted does not stagnate to hate, does not drill itself into the heart to turn it bitter. What Dionysus sought to represent is lust, not love. This was never his match to start with.

Prosymnus comes in Dionysus’ hand and onto Dionysus’ clothes, eyes closed and breathing hard. Dionysus slides down from the prone body, disrobes, and lays himself in next to him in the small space left in the cot. He can feel Prosymnus’ eyes on him as he brings himself off, but the man does not touch him, and when Dionysus looks up at him afterwards, Prosymnus is feigning sleep.

 

 

 

 

===

 

Dionysus wakes with the arrival of rosy-fingered dawn, to find the cottage empty save for himself. Though the cabin still retains its household items, he is certain Prosymnus has left as he meant to do last evening. It seems he would have to find another entrance into Hades.

He eats the bread Polymnus has left on the table, and gathers up his belongings. Before he leaves he goes to have another look at the lake, to check again if the route truly is impossible to find without a guide. He finds Prosymnus at the edge of the water, preparing a small rowboat. He does not look up when Dionysus approaches him.

“Did you eat?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Polymnus grunts.

“I’m surprised you’re awake.” Dionysus says.

“I’m no mortal,” he says, but Dionysus can see how his eyes are bloodshot, and how he flinches at the sound of Dionysus’ voice.

Dionysus kneels to face him, and hovers his hands, open at the palms. Prosymnus looks at him guardedly, but undeterred, Dionysus places his hands at Prosymnus’ temples, and alleviates the aftermath of the wine.

Prosymnus tentatively touches his head, as if he would feel a concave in place of his headache. “Perseus could not do the things you do.”

“Do not speak to me of him.” Dionysus snaps. ‘Greatest Hero’ of the age indeed.

“I thought you’d reconciled? Sibling rivalry does not befit men of your stations.”

Dionysus has to remind himself that there are more pressing matters than finding a way to permanently wipe the sneer off Prosymnus’ face.

Prosymnus bends down again, apparently checking for cracks in the wood.

“The boat,” Dionysus asks, unable to refrain any longer from asking. “It is big enough for two?”

“For a one-way trip, yes.”

Dionysus lets out a breath he didn’t even know he’s been holding. He’s almost afraid to ask why this sudden change of mind has come, but he must.

Prosymnus does not look at him as he replies. “Last night, you did not make me swear to guide you to the entrance. You know I’d have done so, with only a few small lies on your part.” His hands working on the boat slow down. “Why didn’t you?”

Because then, it would be Aphrodite not I who is the conqueror of death, Dionysus thinks, but a drunken man’s logic is impossible to relay to a sober one, so he says, “You did not name your price.”

“Still trying to make me take up on your offer? Why are you so eager to prove me wrong? Is your pride so easily wounded by mere words? Or are you scared to face the truth of what I say?”

“Too many questions, Prosymnus. What do you fear then? That you might have something to live for? Is your pessimism so fragile that you feel the need to protect it?

“You do not understand why men are so desperate to bring the dead back, do you? Well then, I’ll give you every pleasure on the face of this earth. Just let me show you how _good_ it all is. What have you got to lose?”

Prosymnus finally stands to surveys Dionysus for a long time. When he speaks it’s with a tone as if he’s humoring Dionysus, but Dionysus is not fooled. “Show me, then, that you are not so insignificant. Show me _I’m_ not, that you can make me so. Let’s see if you still believe what you preach after you see the face of Death.”

Dionysus’ own boast sounds childish in the morning air, but he nods. “Yes. When I come back I’ll take you Elis. They worship me there-“

“I don’t want an orgy, you sick dog.”

“Then have me.”

“I had you last night. It was not as life-changing as you seem to believe,”

“I have more to give.”

“What, you’ll let me take you as a woman?”

Prosymnus says it daringly, as though Dionysus couldn’t possibly disgrace himself so. Dionysus could laugh at his naïveté.

“You’ll take me to the entrance of Hades. You’ll love me as you’d love a woman, when I return. This I swear on the ri-“

“Don’t, you oaf-“

“-ver Styx.”

The rumbling from the skies is drowned out by Prosymnus’ cursing.

“Have you not learned from your father’s mistake, you imbecil!”

Dionysus half expects Prosymnus to resort to slurs and call him kinaidos or hetairekos as many idiotic moralists have done so in the past, but Prosymnus’ grievance is with the unbinding nature of the oath, not its content, it seems. Not that Dionysus can call those slurs unjust. He’s just proved he’s not above prostitution, after all. “What’s done is done,” Dionysus says.

Prosymnus clenches his fists in frustration, then sighs out exasperatedly. “We’ll have to get moving, then.” He hoists the rope connected to the head of the boat over his shoulder.

Dionysus takes a step to go help push the boat from behind, but is stopped by a hand.

“Let me.” Prosymnus says, pulling the boat along the bank. You’ll need your strength.”

Dionysus nods, and approaches the water instead. No grass grows on the bank of the lake, and is rimmed only by rough sand and pebbles. Now that he’s reached the surface of the lake, it’s easy to fathom why. There’s a particular stench, no, not stench, a _sensation_ he’s definitely familiar with. Like Prosymnus, the lake diffuses a repellant for life. No wonder Prosymnus chose this place for his confinement, no wonder none comes here but for those bereaved.

Dionysus pulls off his tunic, and inspecting the stains from last night, kneels down to soak the cloth with water.

Or he means to. Just before the tunic breaks the surface of the lake he’s yanked back violently by the shoulder to land on his backside. Instinctively he reaches into his powers, ready to unleash chaos onto the attacker in an instant.

“Are you mad?”

Dionysus is ready to shout the question back at him, but still facing the lake he catches a flash of something white and glistening near the surface. It is gone in a split second, and though a mortal might have pegged it a trick of the light, Dionysus has no such comforting mistrust of his own senses.

“I dare not face the Lord of the Dead in tainted clothes.”

“I assure you, most of his visitors arrive in far worse conditions.”

As if he is some errant child, Prosymnus drags Dionysus towards the boat, where half of it lies in the water. He helps Dionysus into it, then pushes the boat, Dionysus still in it, into the lake until he stands knee high in the water. Prosymnus climbs up then, spraying Dionysus.

After some rowing, “Will you not ask me what is in the lake?”

“Should I wish to know?” Dionysus asks, fastening his tunic. He could see occasionally, along the ride, flashes of white, and once, something that looked uncannily like a pale human hand.

“No,” Prosymnus says, grave. “But you should, so that you choose this path knowing the risk you take. They are those who have stepped into the lake unguided.”

“They are spirits of the dead?”

“Spirits, no. You know they call this lake bottomless, that they say it will drag you under. It is true, but it is not only your body that it seizes. Fall in this lake, and your soul will not escape the confines of your shell. You will be trapped, not alive, but unable to reach the realm of the dead either. A ghost, but a physical one, with all the memories and pain and thwarted hopes of the living.”

“I was led to believe,” Dionysus says, throat suddenly dry. “I would be entering the lake.”

“You will merely be passing through. There _is_ a bottom in this lake, but it is not so easy to find.” Prosymnus gives him what he seems to think is a reassuring smile. “Do not be afraid. I would focus my worries on what comes after.”

“I’m not afraid,” he says, believing it. “Any tips on surviving the Underworld?”

“Nothing you might not expect. Do not heed the ailments of the dead. Do not look back. If you want mercy, look to the queen. Do not call on the Kindly Ones. Do not eat the food of the Underworld.”

“Food!” Dionysus says, dismayed.

Prosymnus kicks out a sack from underneath his seat, where it sat among ropes, and rocks Dionysus takes to be some primitive anchor. The sack is waxed, and in it Dionysus finds chunks of bread and dried meats. Incongruously he also sees a myrtle branch as well.

“And what of this?”

Prosymnus looks the other way, just as he had last night as he spilled his heart to him. “If your authority and powers fail to save you, show it to Persephone. She will know it is mine.”

Dionysus know he won’t. It will be Dionysus that conquers death, he does not need the symbol of Aphrodite.

“We’re here.”

They’re in the middle of the small lake, not in the absolute center, but a bit leftwards to it. Dionysus cannot tell anything special about this particular part of the lake, but Prosymnus seems acutely aware. He rows in small strokes to find the correct spot.

“Use the anchor.” Dionysus says.

Prosymnus gives him an odd look. “I will. Give me your feet.”

Understanding dawns on Dionysus and he stiffens.

“If I’d wished to kill you, I would’ve done so while you were sleeping.” Prosymnus says, not unkindly.

“Perhaps you wish on me a feat worse than death.” Dionysus says in spite of himself.

Eyes turning cold, Prosymnus motions at the sack. “I do not lie. With my tongue or otherwise.”

Reluctantly Dionysus holds out his legs, and Prosymnus ties the rocks on his ankles.

“Do not open your eyes until you feel the bottom. When you do, cut the ropes and swim to the surface of the river.”

Sitting at the left edge of the boat, ready to be dragged over, Dionysus hoists the sack, and holds a knife in his hand at Prosymnus’ instruction. Dionysus feels like something is missing here, something he does not understand. “What river? Oh. But.. will I be awake to do so? How will I know I have reached the Phlegethon ?’

Prosymnus holds the rocks, ready to throw them over the edge. His arms are tremoring from the effort, and the boat seems ready to tip over. “You will. It will start burning.”

There is a splash, and Dionysus closes his eyes.

 

===

Semele is different from how he imagined her. Her semi-transparent form looks younger than him, and her tranquility of Asphodel is ended with a wistful air Dionysus wishes he did not notice.

The Underworld is not what he imagined, either. He sees how those who’ve come to save a soul would willingly relinquish theirs instead. It is desolate and forlorn, yes, but the general unaccommodating atmosphere, he senses, comes from the sheer ineffability of eternity, not of mourning. He may be wrong. Even in the heart of Hades’ palace, death remains incomprehensible.

It is Semele who climbs up with him to earth, and Thyone who ascends alone to Olympus. Strangely enough Dionysus is not sad to lose her again. He only feels a tinge of regret coming from the fact that unlike her, he himself has not changed at all. But perhaps a mother he has never known never was his true target.

No, he supposes not. This was always about _his_ victory, his triumph over death. As soon as the gloom of the Underworld leaves him, he feels, surging in greater than before, the potency of his own power. He’s done something even Hercules has failed to do. Even Hades did not dare deny his request, he thinks, giddy with supremacy.

He feasts with his followers, now more numerous than ever. Wine, sex, and the vitality of his own life is sweet. He feels himself burning in a bright flame, dispelling the shadows. Him, thrice born, resurrected, victorious over death.

He is loath to leave it all to visit Lerna, but he has an oath to fulfil, and much more importantly, a man to gloat over, and, he is determined, win over. The climb over the mountain ridges is not unlike before; he is just as certain of success.

The cabin is empty when he arrives, another characteristic reminiscent of last time. But this time, the cabin truly is empty. Utensils, various bowls and cups, the chair and table, are all gone.

Dionysus finds the grave in the back of the cabin, nearly hidden among the fig trees, little more than a mound of dirt and a slab of stone. There is no tomb, no elaborate marble carvings to remember him. This is the grave of a man whom no one has bothered to mourn.

The children of the god of the dead were never cut out to be heroes. There are no songs of them that sing of brave deeds, no shrines to any of their names. There is no reason Prosymnus should be an exception.

He sits down next to the grave. He haphazardly pulls some of the weed growing there, then stops, acutely aware how useless the gesture is.

He puts down his sack and pulls a wineskin from bundle. He pours out a mouthful to where he imagines Prosymnus’ head is and proceeds to drink the rest.

Was it a monster? A sickness? Or perhaps even a quester like him, angered by Prosymnus’ rebuff?

It does not matter. “You stubborn pig,” he says to the mound. “Were you that desperate not to let me win?”

The wine is strong, and he stumbles a little as he gets up to inspect the fig tree hanging over him. He breaks a thick and even branch, as long as his arm. He sits back down, and pulling out his knife, cuts out the twigs and smooths out the branch.

He holds the thicker part of the branch and tries to remember the feeling of Prosymnus in his hand. Did the root of the shaft fit around his fingers? How did it curve? Was the head pronounced?

He does not remember. All he remembers is a pulse in his hand, and the warmth of Prosymnus’ neck as Prosymnus sits very still.

He carves the end of the branch into a facsimile of a penis, and gauging where he imagines Prosymnus’ crotch to be, pushes the branch deep into the earth. There’s a bit of resistance halfway through, from roots or stones or bones, but he pushes, until the smoothed part stands a hand width from the earth.

He rummages his sack again to find a small pithos of olive oil, one he carries around for medical purposes, in addition to nectar. (Ambrosia, it is yet too soon to enjoy.) He pours it out on his hand and rubs it into the branch, smoothing out the splinters. It’s not enough, but the wine was strong enough that he can postpone his pain until tomorrow.

He fumbles with his buttons, and then gives up as his fingers clumsily refuse to coordinate. He shimmies out of the tunic contorting his neck and limbs, feeling as if he’s giving a show.

Yes, a show. He kneels, legs spread out, on the mound of earth, so that he is facing the branch, and his rear a foot away from the headstone. He gathers remaining olive oil from the pithos until his fingers are dripping, and then propping himself up by the elbow and forearm, he arches his back, putting himself on display.

“Is this why you were so frightened at my oath, Prosymnus? He says, opening himself with his fingers. “Silly man. I keep my promises.”

He imagines Prosymnus watching over him, eyes dark, face immovable. “You big prude. You should’ve told me you wanted me. What did you think I’d do? Laugh in your face?” He hits a spot that makes his breath hitch, and Dionysus exaggerates a moan. He rocks back, his fingers up to the knuckles. “Perhaps I would have, but you never know. You weren’t this bad as a child. Maybe if I got you then you’d be a happy debauchee. Or maybe a hero with a pretty little wife on his side. You ever think of that?”

He’s full, and his movements are a bit too coarse that in a short while, he feels himself near the end already. He presses at the spot, tempted to chase the feeling, he does need more lubrication for the next step. But no, he’d like Prosymnus to see him. “Is that why you’re doing this, mucking over my victory? To spite me? It would be just like you, you bitter, vindictive dog.”

He moans as he pulls his fingers away, this time not as false. He tries to stand, but his knees have liquefied below him, and he crawls, his hands digging into the dirt. He turns himself around, so he’s facing the gravestone. He can see the marks his knees has made in the ground.

“That’s your heart, Prosymnus.” He laughs, not knowing why. “I gave you a heart. The one on the left, I mean, not the right. That’ll be strange.”

He pushes with his hands, so that he’s hovering over the branch, knees planted in the dirt. He’s straddling him, as he had four seasons ago. He lowers himself onto the branch, and he breathes hard as the wood enters him. He should have picked a thinner branch.

“It’s good isn’t it? Life-changing, did you say?” He sits himself straighter and tries to relax, pushing himself deeper and deeper. The wood has absorbed the oil, and the friction is enough to send his eyes rolling back into his head. He takes it in until it starts to truly hurt, and then thighs trembling, pitches himself up. The branch comes up with him, Dionysus tighter than the ground.

“Eager, aren’t you, Prosymnus? Shhh.” He tugs the branch down between his legs and holds it still with his hand. He’s leaning forward like this, and though it hurts more the pleasure is just as bigger as well. “Shhh. I’ll take care of you.”

Holding the branch still, he rocks himself. “The wine, it was good, isn’t it? I brought the best I had. I brought spices too, from Asia. They look-“ He bites off a cry. “And taste just like the sun. You’d have said you hated it. Then you’d have eaten it all up, wouldn’t you?”

His thighs are giving out, and it’s all Dionysus can do not to collapse into the earth. He moves the branch instead, in short jabs. “Yes, that’s it. Right there,” he says, closing his eyes. He’s sweating all over in the summer night’s heat, and his fingers slip.

He makes a high keening noise he thinks Prosymnus would have liked, and goes boneless into the ground. He’s still holding the branch, but it’s impossible to move it when he’s shaking like this. He ruts into the earth instead and comes, with a loud moan that is meant to be heard from the depths of the underworld.

After an indeterminable about of time it occurs to Dionysus to pull out. He does, but it’s still too early to attempt to walk, so he lies there on his back, watching the night sky. “I used the myrtle branch” He breathes. “But you know that, don’t you? I bet Persephone is telling you all about it. You, you made me lose.”

He watches the stars in the Vindemiatrix, trying not to think them a mistake. Constellations are living men’s folly. The dead have no desire to be remembered.

He imagines Prosymnus wandering the fields of Asphodel, amongst those others who have failed to make a difference to the world, and he knows Prosymnus does not miss the day of light. The man has died without ever having lived.

====

The steps he takes next, he admits are rather childish of him.

Prosymnus’ phalloi are set up in cities, as memorials or things of worship. Each year, he encourages men and women to perform what he did at Prosymnus’ grave onto themselves as a rite of worship for him. His followers are, admittedly, more enthusiastic about it than he’d have believed, but he supposes he should stop being surprised on that part.

He’s not sure what his followers think when doing so, but for Dionysus the message is clear. He’s won in that battle against the unbeatable. See how death is ridiculed, over and over again.

It is Ariadne he thinks of when the gods offer him the gift of immortality, no doubt about it. But he cannot help gloating internally, as if the man could hear him, that he has truly conquered death. Trivial, the man had said. See how he’s recognized, raised above the limits of men.

He realizes too late, that a deserter can never be a victor.

 

===

When Perseus Jackson, the one with the hated face and the insufferable name asks why he hates him, Dionysus answers, “You’re a hero, boy. I need no other reason.”

The mortal seems not to remember that Dionysus was one himself.

And later, when the half-blood refuses the gift of immortality, Dionysus knows he is the only one in the throne room to understand. The other Olympians have never been human, and so have never felt the inexplicable attraction of death, have never felt both belittled and calmed upon that inevitability. He is the only one who has learned that immortality has a price.

Back at camp half-blood, he watches the campers rejoicing of their victory. He sits at the table, or at least part of him does. He feels himself in five birthday parties, two fuckfests, two volumes of The Book of Tragedy, and a Eucharist (the fact that mortals have so many different names for a son of god turning water into wine never fails to amuse him) in just a 50 mile radius.

He’s happy, as only gods can be, that is, in degrees mortals cannot even imagine. He thinks it is so because gods do not live in the future. _Cannot_ , in fact. Their existence is not physical, and planning loses meaning for those whose will is not theirs but a million others’. But as he looks on at the demigods, he cannot help how much he detests them, and the contempt is something that eats away at him, chewing off a past that he cannot relinquish. And though he’d be happier afloat in the tide of civilization, without a past and a future, he cannot bring himself to let go.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think!


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